


Stitch In Time

by Kailynn_Thorne



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, M/M, Multiverse, Original Character(s), plot device
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-10
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-22 23:56:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/919553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kailynn_Thorne/pseuds/Kailynn_Thorne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: Sherlock died at the end of Reichbach Fall. Enter the "plot device", some multiple universes, John Watson in over his head (looking for love- sometimes in the wrong places!) and just trying to find the man he loves while saving all of existance because apparently-- Sherlock wasn't supposed to die in his universe.</p>
<p>Oops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What The?

If someone had told Doctor John H. Watson he would be sitting in a chair sipping tea perfectly calmly across from a woman, also sipping tea, who had just told him about her wonderful new multi-universe jumping device calm as you please and that not only did he believe her but that he had no intentions of committing her to the nearest asylum a few years ago, he would have laughed at you. 

But at this moment, he was willing to at least give one Doctor Jacqui Stapleton the benefit of the doubt. After all, the woman did invent the glow in the dark rabbit and that was not something one did every day. 

And if the inventor of the glow in the dark rabbit says they have a device which will allow you to go from one universe into the next as easily as passing from the bedroom to the closet, you have to at least hear them all the way out. It’s just good manners, is all. 

“Yes.” 

“Quite.” 

“I… just thought such a device would be… larger, is all,” John admitted with a bit of a cough as he held up the watch shaped object. It held the appearance of one of those terrible calculator watches from the 1980’s. 

Jacqui gave him a smile somewhere between nervous and proud. “Well, we didn’t want to make something too obvious, you see,” she explained. “A giant box or the like would make someone stand out, or worse would be easily lost, broken or stolen. The device is water proof, shatter resistant, and will withstand up to a low level nuclear attack.” 

Rolling his lips over each other a few times, he tossed the portal making watch in his hand. “Is that so?” 

“Oh yes,” she continued. “It’s also solar powered, so recharging it is easy if you can’t use the regular rechargeable battery packs.” 

“Ah, Doctor Stapleton, why would you bring this to me?” John finally asked. “I can’t imagine the government letting something this important just walk away.” 

A panicked look came over the woman’s face. “Listen, my colleagues were about the device to Moriarty-“ 

John pursed his lips at her, shaking his head in annoyance. “He’s dead,” he cut her off. 

“Er, Mycroft was going to use it for evil purposes!” 

“No.” 

“I’m trying to keep it out of the hands of the Black Lotus-“ 

“Wrong, you stole that from the blog.” 

“Space weasels are holding my daughter hostage if I don’t give them the device!” 

John slapped the watch against his thigh with a loud sigh through his nose. “Oh, now you’re not even trying to be serious!” He set his cup down on the coffee table and held the device out to her. “Listen, it has been a lovely evening but I have better things to- what are you doing?” 

“I am so very sorry, John,” Jacqui apologized as she shoved a sealed envelope into the top of his shirt then pressed two buttons on the watch before backing away quickly. “I am very, very sorry.” It wrenched at her heart as he looked at her in confusion as the watch started beeping furiously. 

“Jacqui, wh-?” 

There was no fanfare, lights or even a dramatic rush of wind to herald the exodus of Doctor John H. Watson from his world origin. Just a soft flutter of air and an empty space where a confused man once stood. 

Jacqui Stapleton stood in the center of the room with her hands clasped in front of her mouth, appearing to be praying. “I hope you find what you’re looking for,” she whispered softly, her eyes filling with tears she refused to shed. 

“Don’t be sad, Doc,” a voice assured her from the shadows (and wasn’t there always a voice in the shadows?). “You only did what you had to do.” 

“Damn you,” Jacqui hissed. “If you’ve hurt my-“ 

“Relax,” the voice soothed. “You did what you promised, so I’ll do what I promised.” 

And Jacqui is not the least bit surprised when the first bullet rips into her chest. 

Jacqui just wishes she would be around for the little surprise of her own she set in motion down the line. Oh, well. 

)O( )O( )O( )O( )O( )O( )O(

John blinks and feels as if the air has been sucked from his lungs. 

The first thing he does is take in a loud, noisy breath and collapse back into his chair- 

Which is no longer behind him. So he sprawls rather unceremoniously on his ass. “What the fuck!” he howls into the room. 

John glances at the watch- which is… counting down? He frowns. With a weeble and a wobble, he manages to roll first onto his side then to his knees before hauling himself back to his feet. 

The envelope is poking him in the chin, so he pulls it out. Scrawled across the surface in Jacqui’s elegant non-doctor script are two words: _The Rules._

Sniffing, John wriggles his nose a bit. He notices the air smells… funny. Not in the “What the hell have been experimenting with this time, Sherlock?” way funny. It’s as if this place has different… his mind registers Jacqui is gone. When did this room get so many plants? Was the picture on the left or right before? Was that lamp shade navy or was it a lighter shade of blue? Wait… that rug used to have a stain on it! John was _positive_ of it! 

“Jacqui!” John yelled. “This isn’t funny! Come on out! Jokes over!” He started to stagger around the flat a bit. “Mrs. Hudson? Are you here?” 

Giving his head a good shake to get the cobwebs out of his head, he slipped a finger into the envelope to pry it open. Fine, if this was a damned game, he would play it. Obviously this was the only way to get any answers. 

He thought he was done with games since- 

Since- 

Since- 

John doesn’t like to think about _THAT_ unless you make him. 

He was a brief moment to wonder why Jacqui insisted on meeting here of all places (he had moved out of the old flat a while back after all) when he hears the door opening just as he managed to finally to pry the damned envelope apart. 

_“No.”_

John knows what he sees standing in front of him in the arch way as he is holding the sheets of paper in one hand while the envelop flutters uselessly to the ground. 

Not what. Who. 

_“Sherlock?”_

Sherlock is dead. Therefore, this cannot be Sherlock. 

Sherlock is also not blonde. 

“Who are you?” the blonde Sherlock demands of him, his eyes flickering over John. “If Moriarty thinks he can break me with some cruel look alike, he is sadly mistaken.” 

John can’t breathe for a moment. “You’re dead,” he informs the man standing directly across from him. He comes aware of a stinging in his fingers. Apparently he has a small paper cut. He reads the first rule: 

_1\. You can never go home again. You can only go from one reality to the next…_


	2. Universe 1- The Creeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock is creepy, John is creeped out, Moriarty just might be a (kind of) hero, and John starts to figure out how the device works...

_1\. You can never go home again. You can only go from one reality to the next._

John re-reads the first line again before he looks up at Blond Sherlock (as his mind had quickly dubbed this new man). He can’t decide if this is someone’s sick idea of a joke, Mycroft’s perhaps; or if he has, in fact, crossed over into another reality. 

Blond Sherlock pressed both hands together in front of his face in a painfully familiar gesture while his eyes took in the full measure of John. “How can you be here?” the man whispered near tearfully in a voice that borders on reverence. Well, if someone hired an actor, they didn’t do their homework. The Real Sherlock would never be this emotional. 

Opening and shutting his mouth silently, John began moving slowly about the room. He stumbled over the coffee table and several of the extra potted plants that have suddenly appeared before crashing into a sitting position in a chair, never taking his eyes off the fair haired man, even if he has to crane his neck around to do so. 

”You have no idea how long I have dreamed off this day,” Blond Sherlock simpered over his fingertips, smiling with over bright eyes. “There was a part of me that knew you couldn’t possibly be dead, John. I just knew, oh I _just knew_ you were still alive!” 

You know how when you’re watching a movie and there’s that part where you start screaming at the screen for the hero to get out of the room because Something Very Not Good Is About to Happen? John felt he was at a point like that. Blond Sherlock’s eyes were a little too shiny, he was just a little too happy, and he was more than a little too willing to accept a man had come back from the dead. 

He also happened to notice the very large number of pictures of himself- er, Other John littered about the flat. There must have been over a hundred framed pictures of Other John in this room alone. Wait a minute, why was he sleeping in some of these pictures and in the shower in some of these pictures? _Oh. Shit._

”Well, ah, Sherlock, here’s the thing,” John tried to explain in what was more of a babble, stuffing the letter into the pocket of his pants. “I’m not exactly who you think I am… I’m John’s, ah, cousin. Yes, I am John’s cousin… Bob. I just happen to look a whole lot like him. Very strange coincidence, but I am not the dead John Watson. Very sorry for the confusion. So, I really must be on my way. But I am Bob Watson, not John Watson. Who is still very dead at this moment. John Watson is dead. And I am Bob Watson, who is not dead.” 

Sherlock placed both of his hands on John’s shoulders. John struggled not to jump off the couch or scream like a little girl at the very unwanted touching. “No-ooo,” Sherlock denied with a song in his voice. “You’ve finally come back to me John. You were just testing my loyalty after our little spat from a year ago when you died in that car explosion. But you came back, John, you came back and that just proves how much you still love me.” 

_Fuck, fuckity, fuckersons,_ John cursed deep in his head, curling his hands into tight fists as Blond Sherlock began to stroke his hair with one hand, twisting locks of John’s hair around his fingers. “Well, I certainly am here,” he told the other man stiffly. His first interdimensional experience and he gets Psychotic Crazy Stalker Sherlock, who may also be the Sherlock Who Murdered His Watson a Year Ago, because who knows who caused the car to blow up? 

Purring contentedly, Sherlock bent down to inhale the scent of John’s hair deep into his lungs. “I left your room just the way you had it on the day you died, John,” he husked into John’s ear before giving it a small lick. “We can go back to the way were, before things went all wrong. I’ll be so good to you, John, I promise I won’t hurt you as long as you promise to be mine and only mine.” He moves both of his hands to caress the sides of John’s throat with a pleased hum. 

John knew he had to get out of here and fast. Fighting every instinct to run or to fight, because he suspected the psychotic male behind him would snap his neck before he got the chance, he managed to make himself smile at Sherlock in the reflection of the television. “How… how about some tea, Sherlock?” he requested from a very dry throat. 

”How about something a little stronger?” the blond tempted, mouthing at the back of the other’s head. “I’ve got your favorite take away in the kitchen and a bottle of champagne I’ve been saving, but I think tonight is a good night to open it. I feel like celebrating.” 

Using every skill he had honed in Afghanistan, John nodded his head sharply a few times, careful not to smash Sherlock in the nose. “Sure,” he agreed, managing to squeak as little as possible. All he needed to do was get out of this nutter’s hands for a few seconds, knock the bastard unconscious then make a run for it. Perhaps run all the way to Antarctica, which had wonderful penguins. “That sounds absolutely wonderful, Sherlock. Why don’t you go do that and I’ll wait right here?” 

Sherlock clearly wasn’t going to make it that easy for him. “Come with me into the kitchen, John,” he commanded softly, reaching down to grope the other male. 

John nearly flew off the chair. “Right, that’s enough of that!” he declared before grabbing the fire poker and cracking Blond Sherlock across the forehead with it. 

In a rousing good action story, the bad guy goes down with one solid whack to the head. 

Blond Sherlock stumbled back, clutching at his bleeding forehead. John winced as the other looked up at him first in confusion then in anger. “That,” Sherlock snarled, “was a _very_ stupid thing to do, John.” 

”You are a very sick man who is in desperate need of some serious, professional psychiatric help,” John informed him, trying to ward off Sherlock with the fire poker. “I am not John Watson and you need to stay the hell away from me!” 

Giving him a look parents reserve for Very Naughty Children, which somehow terrifies John immensely, Sherlock wiped the blood from his eyes before taking a slow, measured step closer to his prey. “I was planning on an intimate dinner and moonlight for our reunion, John,” he intoned in a voice laced with sex and violence. “Now I’m going to have to punish you instead because you’ve been such a naughty boy. I want you to remember you brought this on yourself, John. I don’t like doing this, but you need to be reminded of your place.” 

Readjusting his grip on the fire poker, John glowered at Sherlock. “Don’t you dare come near me,” he threatened. “I will defend myself. I don’t know what happened with you and John-“ 

Sherlock casually flicked out a switchblade from his pocket. “Shut up, John, and take your punishment like a big boy,” he chastised. “You know it goes much easier if you do.” 

Looking over the too sharp blade, John’s eyes widened slightly. “Jesus, what kind of a relationship did the two of you have?” he gasped, backing up a few steps. “Just what sort of sick bastard are you?” 

”You shouldn’t have run away from me, John,” Sherlock hissed, his last grip on sanity clearly slipping away. “But I promise I won’t let you run away from me ever again! Not after this! Don’t you remember how even Lestrade didn’t believe you last time? They all believe me and not you! I can do whatever I want and _no one will ever believe you!_ ” 

The proverbial light bulb came on over John’s head. Either his counterpart here was killed by Sherlock or killed himself to get away from this psychotic. Lunging forward as he swung again at Sherlock’s head with the fire poker, John howled, “I. Am not. John. Watson!” 

While he managed to bring the poker down with a satisfying wet “thump” on Sherlock’s shoulder, it turned out- rather unfortunately for John- Sherlock was ready for the attack. He leaned into the strike, deflecting some of the force while slashing with his knife at through the fabric of John’s pants and some of the flesh of his leg. John can’t hold back a yelp of pain as Sherlock roughly twists his wrist farther than its meant to go until he dropped the poker. 

”Now, what am I do with you, Naughty Boy?” the blond wondered, licking his lower lip as he bought the blade tip up to the corner of John’s eye. He still had the wrist bent as he pressed John’s body tight against his own. “Maybe I should break both of your legs to keep you from running away this time? Blind you to keep you from _ever looking at anyone else ever again?_ ” His voice rose to a paranoid shriek in John’s ear. 

”I…I’ll be good,” John promised desperately. “You’re the only one for me, Sherlock. Why do you think I came back? I saw what the world had out there without you in it. I never want to go back to that again. Please don’t hurt me.” 

Sherlock at least stopped bending John’s wrist so much. He nuzzled the top of John’s head like a mother cat. “I don’t want to hurt you, John,” he whimpered, seeming almost despondent. “I just want you to love me, to never leave me. It should just be us. I’m all you need, why can’t you see that?” 

”I see that.” John would agree to just about anything right now to gain the upper hand. He still had limits, but he also had a sense of self preservation. “And there will never be anyone but us, I promise, Sherlock. Just let me up, okay? Let’s have that dinner and champagne.” 

Suddenly, the blond man stiffened against him before shooting up. “You!” he snarled as he staggered across the room before collapsing in a messy heap on the floor. John can see a feathered dart sticking out of Sherlock’s ass. 

John looked owlishly over the top of the couch as he straightens up slowly. He dully supposed he shouldn’t be shocked to see Jim Moriarty standing there looking rather pissed holding a tranquilizer gun. John also took note of the badge attached to Moriarty’s belt. John just sighed heavily at this point. 

”Just come on,” Moriarty commanded him, gesturing wildly with the tranq gun. “These damned things don’t work too long on him and neither of us wants to be here when he wakes up.” 

)O( )O( )O( )O( )O( )O(

John sat silently in the back of Inspector Moriarty’s car as he drove through the streets of London. The other man kept casting suspicious glances at him in the rearview mirror but hadn’t said anything to him yet. John wondered if he should try telling this Other Moriarty the truth or go with his Bob Watson story. Better yet, maybe he should just come up with a whole new story all together now? 

”You know, for a brief moment I actually thought Johnny was stupid enough to go back to that son of a bitch,” Moriarty finally growled at his passenger without turning around. “I had a terrifying, gut wrenching second where I truly believed that after all I had done for him, John Watson had boarded a plane without telling me, came to jolly ole England and returned to the asshole who made his life _a living hell_.” Moriarty jerked on the wheel of the car, causing John to smack his head on the window with a soft curse. Moriarty was not the least bit sorry. “So, I’m certain you can imagine my great relief when I called his cell, after being texted by Mycroft _fucking_ Holmes about him being in Sherlock’s bloody apartment, to find he’s still safely in New Amsterdam City in America!” 

”New Amsterdam City?” John parroted in mild confusion, still rubbing at the side of his smarting head. Some part of him registered the fact that New York must have never changed its name from New Amsterdam in this reality. 

Moriarty jerked on the wheel again, bringing the car to a screeching halt in an alley. John, too late, took stock of where they were: a place where no one would care what happened to him. Which was probably why Moriarty thought nothing of pointing an actual gun instead of the tranquilizer gun in his face. “So, just who the fuck are you, if you are not John Watson?” Moriarty demanded coldly. 

”Well,” John swallowed, nodding once as he tried to dry his very sweaty palms off on pants. He winced when accidentally rubbed some of the salty sweat intp the wound Sherlock had given him earlier. The wheels turned incredibly fast in his head for what he hoped was a believable story. “Look, other than you and Mycroft, who else knows about John Watson still being alive?” 

Moriarty cocked the gun, which was very loud in the silence of the car. “I asked you a question and you will answer it.” 

Holding up his hands in supplication, John tried to look properly disarming. “I promise, I am answering you: who else knows?” 

”Just the two of us.” 

John snapped his fingers at Moriarty. “Exactly,” he informed him. “See, I was hired because I look like a dead man. The people who sent me just wanted me to make Sherlock look insane, have him raving about seeing his dead friend. They never mentioned anything to me about him being a right nutter. Or about the real John Watson still being alive, because they did not know he actually is still alive. My name is Bob, Bob Morgans. Truth be told, I had to have some work done to me to look like this.” 

The gun was lifted up as Moriarty peered at him a little more closely in that calculating way John remembered he had. “Make Sherlock… look insane?” he repeated somewhat incredulously. 

Shrugging, John managed to look somewhat relaxed as he turned his attention to the wound on his leg. “Well, the pay was right for me to consider taking the job,” he made it seem as if he was explaining his reasoning. “And my to be unnamed employers seemed to think it was a good idea at the time. Now that I’ve actually met the man, I fear they didn’t realize what they were dealing with. Seems he needs to go the way of Old Yeller, if you ask me.” 

Moriarty seemed confused by the reference: “Who’s Old Yeller?” 

John made a quick mental note to avoid literary, cinematic, pop culture… hell, he was just going to avoid references all together. He rubbed tiredly at his eyes. “Family dog that went rabid,” he groaned. “Sorry, it’s been a long day. I’ve been molested, cut, mistaken for some psychotics dead lust interest, and now been threatened to let slip the mortal coil by a copper.” 

”Tough day,” Moriarty sympathized unsympathetically as he put his gun away. “But you have just put my boyfriend’s life in mortal danger. Now that Sherlock believes John is alive thanks to you, he won’t stop until he finds him again.” He narrowed his eyes at John. “And he will find him again, Mr. Morgans. So what are you going to do about it?” 

John suddenly felt tired and like an utter shit. He had only had a brief taste of what his other self must have had to put up with for months on end. That poor bastard had to fake his _own death_ to get away- 

Wait a minute. Did Moriarty just say Other John was his boyfriend? What kind of fucked up world was this? And what if this Moriarty was as much of a creeper as Blond Sherlock? Was he damning Other John to some kind of hell by not killing Moriarty? 

Then again, John couldn’t see Mycroft letting Moriarty live… unless he was incredibly useful. After all, wasn’t Sherlock still alive? Wait, Sherlock was family. 

John looked down at his hands. He had to make a difficult choice. He glanced at the watch on his wrist, frowning when he remembered it was counting backwards. _00:03:32:41_ He really needed to read through the rules of this stupid device (he had obviously accepted he was on a journey through multiple universes, it was the only logical explanation for… any of this!), but now was not the time. What should he ultimately do? What was in the best interest of Other John? What about himself? 

Time for a leap of faith. 

”I’ll put the rabid dog down,” he decided. “Take me back to the flat. That way if anyone sees me going in, they’ll totally discredit their own eyes. After all, how can a dead man commit a murder? Plus, the tabloids and the romantics will love it: the ghost of John Watson returning for his revenge on his Stalker.” 

Moriarty gave him a wild smile. “What about your employers?” he queried, quirking an eyebrow at him. “Won’t they be displeased with you?” 

”I’ll deal with them,” John shrugged, giving off the air of a disgruntled employee. “They weren’t entirely honest in their dealings with me, were they? Might have to have a little… discussion of my own with them.” 

For a split second, John saw his Moriarty in this other man. But it was quickly squashed, and he was glad. He wondered what happened differently here, if he would have time to find out what led to this Moriarty becoming the man he is today. “We’ll need to get you a gun,” he told him. “I know a guy who can help us out.” 

)O( )O( )O( )O( )O( )O( )O(

Thirty minutes later, Moriarty had John back to his place. It was a modest flat clearly decorated by a gay man trying to appear straight. It’s masculine enough, but it’s a very well-coordinated masculine chic. 

While John tended to cleaning his leg and changing into fresh pants while Moriarty called his “friend”. It didn’t take very long to get John an illegal gun without question. The gun was handed over to John as soon as the dealer left without much fanfare. 

Moriarty insisted any great venture could be done on an empty stomach, which was accentuated by the rumbling of John’s belly. John’s host reheated some chicken, rice and made them a nice salad. The two men ate in companionable silence. John was almost tempted to tell the other about how another Moriarty had once strapped him in semtex by a pool once, but really there was no point in it. 

”Are you ready for this?” Moriarty asked as he picked up their plates to set in the sink. “You’ll need to be quick. Sherlock will expect some kind of retaliation from at least me now. And I should warn you: he’s armed, Morgans, but not with guns. Knives, swords, spears, anything with a pointed end is his specialty. So keep your wits about you, because he will have traps about.” Here, Moriarty leaned in close. “Plus, he thinks _you_ are John Watson.” 

Nodding, John stood up. His cut leg hurt him a bit, but it was nothing he couldn’t fight through. He lightly touched the comforting gun in the back of his pants. He also had his copy of the rules transferred into one of the pockets. “The sooner we get this over with, the better,” he grunted out. 

Moriarty shook his head before handing John a jacket that most likely once belonged to his other self. It had a military cut to it. The two men slipped out into the night and into what John assumed was Moriarty’s personal car, but he didn’t feel much like asking. 

Soon enough they were at the end of Baker Street once more. John glanced at the device which now reads _00:00:16:14_. He was beginning to suspect what it is counting down towards. This would be perfect. 

”Alright,” Moriarty said once they came to a stop a five blocks away. “You’ll have to walk from here. I can’t risk him seeing me or this car. Once you’re done, come right back and we’ll head back to my place.” 

”Right,” John nodded before slipping out of the car. He made his way cautiously up the street, moving between the few people still out walking at this time of night. John was careful not to be noticed. Then again, no one was looking for a dead man to be out walking tonight any way. 

Sherlock apparently was inviting him back in having left the front door unlocked. Remembering Moriarty’s warning, he pushed open the door cautiously before slipping inside. He glanced once more down at the watch: _00:00:02:58_. 

John pulled out the gun and cocked it, just in case. If he was right, he doubted he would need it but it didn’t mean he would be caught unaware. “Honey, I’m home,” he called out softly as he reached the top of the stairs. 

”Welcome home, John,” Sherlock’s dark voice mocked from the shadows. He wasn’t even trying to hide, he was sitting calm as you please in his favorite chair in the mostly darkened room with one leg loosely crossed over the other. For some reason, he had lit a few candles- ambiance perhaps? John could see one of Sherlock’s shapely fingers caressing the hilt of his knife as the tip spun around on his thigh. “That was not a very nice thing your little friend did earlier.” 

”No, it wasn’t,” John admitted with a weak shrug. “But you weren’t being very nice to me either, so you were kind of asking for something not nice to happen to you.” 

Sherlock smiled mirthlessly at him. “Indeed,” he sneered. “Now, are you done with this little rebellion of yours and ready to come back to me for good now? Let’s just put the silly little gun of yours away and get on with our lives, shall we?” 

John put the gun in the waistband of his pants as he looked at his watch one last time. “Sorry, I don’t think so,” he smiled brightly. “And, if I’m right-“ 

”Sherlock, are you up there?” Mycroft’s voice called out just as the watch started beeping. 

John gave Blond, Psychotic, Stalker Sherlock a jaunty wave. He really hadn’t wanted to go with Option B Shooting Sherlock in the Head, anyway. “Your John is dead, you sick fuck,” he informed the man sitting across from him. “Good-bye.” 

Then he disappeared in a small puff of air. 

Sherlock blinked rapidly. “No,” he whispered. “No. No. NO! Come back, John! I’m sorry! I’ll be good to you! Come _back!_ ” 

Mycroft glanced in shock around the room containing only his raging, ranting brother. Sherlock was so lost in his own grief, he didn’t notice the brief smile to flit across his brother’s face. _Well played, John,_ he mused. A pity, he could have used someone like that. This world’s John was a useful enough fellow in that he kept his agent Moriarty happy and he was a decent doctor, but that was about it. This other John was apparently intelligent. What a waste. Oh, well. 

Sherlock leapt up, shoved past his brother and went charging into the streets. “John! Come back, John!” he screamed. He grabbed one of his neighbors who happened to be walking her dog. “Did you see John? He was just here! He came back from the dead for me!” 

Her husband came rushing out of their flat to disentangle the mad man from his wife to rush her back inside. Mycroft watched this from the window of 221B Baker Street with grim satisfaction. Yes, it wouldn’t be long before his brother would finally be under his thumb in under the guise of a permanent psychiatric care facility. 

The loss of the Other John was a true waste to this world. 

)o( )o( )o( )o( )o( )o( )o( 

Taking the necessary first few breaths, John folded himself over as he put his hands on his knees. He blinked about in a mostly darkened room. Moistening his lips, he slowly stood up. “Hopefully this won’t be as bad as the last one,” he murmured to no one. 

He counted slowly in his head backwards from ten to calm himself. If his first experience had taught him anything, it was to be very careful about what he said to whom and to whom he revealed himself without first finding out about the John Watson of the world he was in. 

John snorted softly to himself as he cracked his neck, thinking to himself he was acting as if he had been at this whole reality jumping thing for a long time. 

It was then that John realized how very hot the room he materialized in really was. And small… did he mention how _small_ this room was? 

There was a sound of children screeching outside of the room. 

John panicked, his PTSD kicking in. He drew his gun, kicking the door open- 

-to the most bizarre television set for a children’s program he had ever seen. The children stopped screaming with laugher- he realized too late- when they saw his gun. Then they actually started screaming in terror as chaos reigned supreme on the set. It was like Mary Poppins had a rough night with Barney the Purple Dinosaur, and this show was their bastard love child who they agreed to have raised by the Power Rangers who had been living in a trailer park with the Teletubbies, after deciding to never talk of that night they spent together ever again. 

”Oh, no!” John yelled out over the children, waving his gun about in a lame attempt to calm the terrified tots down. “I’m not going to shoot you! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” 

Which of course only made things worse. One child had a seizure, while one had an asthma attack. Two skinned their knees while someone threw up in what looked like the trunk of a tree constructed of lollipops and dung beetles. Another child who was probably a “professional child actor” had whipped out his phone and was calling his lawyers to demand compensation for “severe psychological trauma” and to secure the rights for the book deal. 

”Who the fuck are you and what are you doing on my set?” the director… oh, fuck, it was Sherlock. 

”You have got to be kidding me,” John roared with laughter. “Who in their right mind is letting _you_ work with children?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for nothing!
> 
> Actually, I figured I would start off with Dark Sherlock, then give y'all a more light hearted story next chapter!
> 
> And, remember, reviews are love!


	3. Universe 2- What Time is it Kids? It's Captain Marsupial Time!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John enters his second world, gets suckered into children's programming, starts to learn more about the device, and gains a companion at the end. But who is she?

Sherlock’s eye twitched in annoyance as he was laughed at by this gun wielding mad man who had come charging onto the set of _his_ show and terrified _his_ actors. He could already feel his ulcer starting to act up when Edward Ephraim Thompson (the third, as the little prat would no doubt remind him at least five more times today) came stomping over with his phone still pressed to his ear. 

”Mr. Holmes,” the little snot demanded priggishly, standing directly in the director’s path. “My lawyers want to know what kind of compensation I can expect for this disruption of my schedule.” 

The mad man with the gun quirked an eyebrow at Edward. “Oh, come on,” he snorted at the child. “I didn’t even shoot off any rounds. The best you can hope for is an extra juice box and maybe twenty more minutes on the swings.” 

Sherlock managed not to crack a smile. Actually, he might like this gentleman. 

Edward’s head twisted around so fast to look at the blond man it nearly came off. “Do you know who I am?” he squealed, his eyes nearly popping out of their sockets. Sherlock thought he kind of looked like an angry little Chihuahua. 

”A child in desperate need of a smacked bottom who has clearly missed his nap time that I could clearly care less about since I don’t watch ridiculous little kid’s shows?” the adult retorted as he finally put the gun in the back waist of his pants. 

For what was probably the first time in a long time, Sherlock was glad to see someone shut the little shit up. Just for that, he mentally decided not to press charges and personally escort the gunman out. And, if he was lucky, maybe take him out for dinner tonight. It had been such a long time since he had been out with a man who possessed a decent level of wit, much less the potential to be intelligent. 

Clapping his hands loudly, Sherlock strode onto the center of the set. “Alright, children, I know we’ve all had a good scare,” he called out, drawing their short attention spans to him. “This was actually a test of our security here. I paid this fine gentleman to jump out with a _fake_ gun to see how our security forces would react if someone came on the set to kidnap one of you or with some other such nefarious intent. Clearly we are in need of some major changes around here.” 

John had to admit he was impressed by how fast the director thought on his feet. The children sniffed, looking to their god with awestruck eyes. Even Edward seemed satisfied with this explanation (as were his lawyers, apparently, given the silence coming from his phone) as he nodded and glowered at the non-existent security who had not come to his rescue when John came charging through waving his gun all over the place. 

Apparently, once Sherlock got on (and into) a role, he didn’t know when to quit. “Yes, this fine gentleman is one of the finest new actors around I just happened to have the glorious happenstance to snatch up first before anyone else could get to him,” he declared, rolling his “r”s dramatically as he gesticulating grandly. “In fact, he is Gregory Lestrade’s replacement on the show! Children, meet our new Colonel Marsupial!” 

Blinking rapidly in shock and mouthing nonsense words, John was quickly surrounded and tackled in a series of sticky hugs from cheering children. Even Edward seemed pleased as he gave John a manly punch in the arm and stated, “Welcome to the show, old bean.” John wanted to punt the boy out the nearest window or take him out in the woods for some real manliness training. There was a boy who needed to roll in the mud after being taught to hunt, fish, and or at least chop some wood. 

”Yes, welcome to the show,” Sherlock greeted his newest cast member with a bright smile as he disentangled him from the multiple grasps of parentally love starved children who were mostly just meal tickets. “Now, children, why don’t we take the rest of the day off so I can work with our new Colonel Marsupial and you can come back in the morning.” 

The children quickly dispersed, leaving the two men alone on the set. “Captain Marsupial?” John finally frowned. “I’ll have you know I’ve never acted a day in my life.” 

”Well, either you can be my new Captain Marsupial of ‘Captain Marsupial and Friends’, which is the highest rated children’s showed in the United Kingdom I will have you know,” Sherlock informed him slickly. “Or, I can call the police, have you arrested for threatening the number one children’s show with a gun, and I imagine you don’t have the proper papers for the gun either. Also, you will be joining me for dinner this evening as well. I do hope you have something better to wear.” 

”Ah, yes,” John coughed, rubbing the side of his face abashedly. “See, here’s the thing. My… friend kicked me out of our place. I’ve only got the clothes on my back, I’m afraid. So I guess dinner is out.” He glanced at the watch and nearly cried out in frustration. _09:12:58:29._ What he really needed was to read through the ‘rules’ Jacqui had given him, but he suspected he was stuck here for nine days. _Great, just great,_ he groaned inwardly. 

Feeling a small spark of triumph, Sherlock came to a few conclusions. The pause told him his query was used to hiding his sexuality from a world which didn’t understand him. It also told Sherlock his mystery man was available and probably on the rebound. “So, you have no clothing, nowhere to live, no job save the one I’ve just graciously given you,” Sherlock rationalized as he circled around the other man, smiling warmly. He didn’t like the way the other man suddenly went very tense. “Your last relationship ended very poorly, I take it?” 

John suddenly had a flash of the last Sherlock he met. “He turned out to be a stalker, actually,” he told the children’s show director. “After he took everything from me I owned amongst the other stuff he did, his brother finally helped me get him committed to an institution. He’s dead now, killed himself recently.” John marveled inwardly at how easy it was for him to come up with these stories. 

Sherlock nodded slowly, drawing back his attempt at seduction a bit. This one would clearly need to be treated like a skittish colt for a bit. There was no need to rush things. “Do you have a name?” he asked softly, drawing back to a safe distance. 

Listening to his gut feelings, he introduced himself as, “John. John Watson.” 

”Well, John-John Watson, I’m Sherlock Holmes, the director and writer of this incredibly popular piece of children’s tripe you are about to become a piece of. Now, I’m going to offer to take you back to my flat to get into some better clothing as well as stay there.” Sherlock promptly raised up his hands peaceably. “And, no, that is not a come on, unless you want it to be, I promise. But, by your own admission, John, you do need clothing along with a comfortable place to stay with relatively few strings attached.” 

Which was how one hour later John once more found himself back at 221 Baker Street. And it looked absolutely nothing like he remembered it. The flat in the last universe was just a bit off with the color scheme and the plants, a few pictures out of place. 

In this world, 221 Baker Street was… a bloody hi-rise along with Sherlock’s home being a very large place of near penthouse proportions at that. Clearly, “Captain Marsupial and Friends” had made Writer and Director Sherlock Holmes a very rich man indeed. John suspected Sherlock may have been smart enough to also secure some profits from the merchandizing rights as well. He also felt as if he should at least be paying the man in hand jobs or something for being allowed to stay here for the nine days he was going to be stuck in this world. 

”Watch out for Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock called out as he disappeared into the kitchen for a moment. “She’s getting on in years. One of these days I know I will have to put her down, but I just love her so!” 

John starts for a moment before an old white cat strolls into the room, marrowing at him with demands to be scratched between the ears. “Mrs. Hudson, I presume?” he murmurs as he obliges her, thinking _of course he has a cat._

”That was the first Captain Marsupial’s cat,” Sherlock informs him coming out with a bottle of wine and two glasses. He seems almost saddened for a moment as he fills the glasses. “Jim always loved that cat.” 

And there was no need for John to inquire further who Jim was. 

John thankfully accepted a glass of wine from the director’s hands, taking note of the softness of the tips of his fingers when they caressed John’s palm briefly. “So, what exactly does ‘Captain Marsupial’ do on the show?” he inquired, taking a sip. 

Sherlock led him into the sitting room, the two men falling companionably beside each other on the couch. “He reads stories to children, teaches them the meanings of certain words, encourages them to use their imaginations, then some lovely actors come in to act out the stories he reads to those ungrateful brats you met earlier,” he explained, ticking one nail on the side of his glass. “He is also assisted in his storytelling by a series of marsupial themed puppets. Oh, you aren’t opposed to dressing like you are from the Australian Outback, I hope?” 

”Oh, dear god,” John groaned, covering his eyes with a soft laugh. “I was afraid you were going to make me dress like a giant kangaroo.” 

Roaring with laughter of his own, Sherlock nearly spilled his wine all over. “I may have fallen low from the expectations I set for myself when I graduated from film school all those years ago, but I will _never_ put anyone in a god damned kangaroo suit,” he assured the other. Unable to help himself, he reached out to stroke the side of John’s face affectionately. “As if I could ever hide such a beautiful face from the world. Now that would truly be a great sin.” 

A light pink dusted John’s cheeks as he leaned into the touch. There was a little guilt in the back of his mind- _this was how I sometimes wished my Sherlock had acted when he was alive_ \- and more than a bit of lust curled in his lower belly- _this Sherlock_ is _alive and definitely wants me._ And he would be lying if he didn’t admit he was interested. It had been so long… 

When did Sherlock get so close? 

Suddenly lips were pressed against each other while tongues battled each other for dominance. Their hands tore at each other’s clothing. 

And I think it’s best we give these two a bit of privacy until the sun comes back up. But what you can know is that it was amazing, they both got off several times in more than one room of Sherlock’s place, and apparently John still had some acrobatic tricks left in him. 

)o( )o( )o( )o( )o( )o( )o(

The next morning came to soon for both men. Sherlock apparently had cooking amongst his arsenal of many skills, as he prepared them omelets and coffee. John reviewed the script and attempted to fake a passable Australian accent as he sat at the kitchen’s island, much to Sherlock’s amusement. “Don’t worry, love, most of the children of Britain wouldn’t know a true Australian if one declared themselves a wallaby and bit them on the arse,” he soothed John’s ego. 

Somehow John wasn’t as certain as Sherlock about the lowered intelligence of British children, but he felt confident enough by the time afternoon rolled around and they were on the set once more. The next four days were a blur of makeup, running of lines, filming, puppets, sitting around while other scenes were being shot, reapplication of makeup while his hair was restyled, and trying to catch a brief bite to eat or drink when the moment presented itself. 

John found a confidant in Edward on the second day after filming the scene which explained why there was a new Captain Marsupial for the newest season of the show (John was apparently the last Captain’s cousin, who was filling in while the previous Captain went off to do his duty overseas. Sherlock wanted to keep things current and reach out to the kids who had moms and dads who were in the Service). “My friend was the nephew of the first Captain Marsupial,” Edward had told John conspiratorially. It turned out Edward was actually in his mid-teens, but he had focal segmental glomerelosclerosis just like Gary Coleman and so still looked like a child which forced him to continue to work as a perpetual “child actor” in between rounds of dialysis. 

”Jim Moriarty and Sherlock had created the show on a local channel up in Cardiff,” Edward went on. “I think it was about ten years ago. I remember watching it, one of my favorite shows when I was a kid! They got an offer by the Big Boys. Supposedly Jim didn’t want to take it at first, wanted to stay independent, blah, blah, blah. Sherlock wanted the opportunity to reach a broader audience, he was promised no one would mess with his show ‘too much’.” He snorted. “Yeah, like that was ever going to happen.” 

”How much of their soul did they lose to the network?” John asked. 

The teen chortled darkly. “Originally, Captain Marsupial had this plucky sidekick who read the stories with him called Kasey Koala, played by their very good friend Molly Hooper,” Edward dished. “The network decided early on she had to go in favor of the puppet pals over there. She didn’t rate high enough in focus groups it seems. Jim was pissed. I’m surprised he stuck around for as many years as he did.” 

John started a bit. “So, where is he now?” To be honest, he had assumed from the way Sherlock had talked about Jim the few times he mentioned the other that the man was dead. 

Edward shrugged. “Well, they had one hell of a blow up on set a year ago when Jim just couldn’t take Sherlock’s prima donna shit any more. Sherlock told him he would never survive without him.” Edward grinned broadly. “Jim made a successfully movie in the States and had a decent sitcom over there now. So, we know he _won’t_ be crawling back!” 

So, now John was laying limply on the couch in Sherlock’s living room staring at a blank television with an arm thrown over his eyes as he held onto a glass of wine while Sherlock showered. They had filmed two weeks’ worth of shows in four days apparently. All John knew was he was completely knackered and he wanted to sleep for a very long time. 

He glanced down at his watch. He had just a little over four days left- 

”Shit!” he cursed. What happened to the show when he disappeared in four days? 

Why did he care? 

Taking a deep gulp of wine, John leapt to his feet to rush over to Sherlock’s laptop. Pulling up the internet, he began searching for this world’s John Watson as he hoped desperately the man wasn’t dead. 

While he searched through John Watsons, John wondered how he was supposed to handle this situation. He figured there was something in his rule sheet… which was still in his other pants, he realized as he patted the form fitting shirt and jeans Sherlock had bought for him. 

Panic gripped at John’s heart. 

The laundry was going. 

His clothing was in the laundry. 

The rules were in his old clothes. 

”No,” he moaned, running into the laundry room. “Oh, no, no, no!” John ripped open the dryer as it buzzed. A little ball of white paper landed mockingly at his feet. “Shit,” he hissed, grasping his hair in frustration. 

John couldn’t decide if he should cry or punch something after slamming the dryer shut. He stomped back to the laptop to resume his search for his other half, draining the glass of wine. This was more than a bit not good. 

The shower stopped. “How does Italian sound for dinner tonight? There is a lovely place we can go with a couple of friends of mine who I’m dying to introduce you too!” Sherlock called out as he was disappearing into his room to change. 

”Sounds great!” John called back distractedly. He muttered to no one under his breath as he finally found “himself”, who turned out not to be so different from his actual being, “Just great.” The trick now was going to be first finding the man, then finding some way of replacing one John Watson with the other. 

Since he had the next day off, he would just have to find some reason to slip away for a little while to find the other John Watson. In the meantime, John would have time to come up with how he was going to switch places. 

)o( )o( )o( )o( )o( )o( )o( )o(

”Dinner with Friends” had nearly killed John. Seeing Irene and Greg dating was one thing, who had apparently just met within the past few weeks. Seeing Irene who was apparently a straight laced schoolmarm type was just… disturbing. He had desperately wanted to tell everyone at the table he was a dimension hopping traveler and about Irene’s other self just to make the woman stop acting like a damned _nun_. 

It was downright freaky. 

John suspected she was one of those wild women in the bedroom types. Speaking of which, apparently seeing Greg made Sherlock extra adventurous that night. Clearly the man had been some kind of failed conquest for the director. As soon as they were through the door, he tackled John, tied him up and had his wicked way with him until they were both pleasurably exhausted. 

The next morning, Sherlock left John to his own devices as he had work to attend to with The Network. 

John was thankful he didn’t have to come up with a story for what he needed to do for the day. Looking again at the St. Bart’s website, he winced at his own smiling face. Did he really look that… dopey? Made it was just a bad day when he had his picture taken. 

Apparently, in this world, Doctor John Watson was the head of cardiac surgery. It was a Saturday, so the man might not be working but he had to start somewhere. If nothing else, John knew he could go in to find his personnel file for the other doctor’s home address. 

Taking a cab in favor of being driven by one of Sherlock’s personal drivers, John arrived at St. Bart’s. It was weird breaking into the hospital where he worked- _I don’t work here,_ he reminded himself before slipping in through the employee entrance in the parking garage unnoticed. 

John had dressed that morning in a plain sweatshirt and jeans, a well-worn pair of tennis shoes on his feet. He also wore a hat. Since the Other John was the head of a department here, there was a chance he might get noticed and that was the last thing he needed. 

Thankfully, this St. Bart’s was laid out the same as his so he had no trouble find cardiology. The visitors’ lounge was teeming with people. John milled about in there for a few minutes, before sitting. He picked up a magazine which he pretended to read as he watched the staff, waiting for Other John to make his appearance if he was here. 

After thirty minutes, John got bored of waiting. Rocking to his feet, he wandered about trying to be as inconspicuous as possible while searching out the other. 

This clearly wasn’t going to work. John decided to go with the personnel route. Turning sharply on his heel, he wandered through the maze of hallways to the human resources department. Since it was a Saturday, the offices were mostly abandoned. 

Keeping his head down and managing not to attract any attention, John found one of their computers not only turned on but abandoned. John sat, giving his user name and password a try. “Of course it’s not going to be that easy,” he muttered when he couldn’t log on. 

Searching around the desk, John hit pay dirt when he discovered who ever used this desk had written their information on a piece of paper in a drawer. He quickly logged on and within moments had the home address of Dr. Watson. Scribbling the address on a post-it which he shoved into his pocket, John noticed a brown haired woman in a suit starting to walk his way. She hadn’t noticed him yet, so John quickly made his escape from the office. 

Forty five minutes later found John outside his other’s small brick house. John realized he had no idea what to do next. Sure, he could follow the other around for a bit, get an idea about who he was but then what? 

The front door to the house opened. John briskly walked a safe distance away, finding tying his shoes very interesting as he checked out the other man out of the corner of his eye. 

The doctor appeared to live alone with just an English Bulldog for company, who he was currently taking out for a walk. There was only one name on the mailbox and the doctor’s finger was free of any wedding band. 

Straightening, John followed doctor and dog on their constitutional. After ten minutes of watching the doctor trying to coax “Gladstone” into doing his “business”, John decided it was time to head back to Sherlock’s to formulate some kind of plan before his time was up. 

)o( )o( )o( )o( )o( )o( )o( )o( 

Unfortunately, time was not helping. By Sunday, John was no closer to coming up with a plan to replace himself. 

He and Sherlock had gone to brunch together. Sherlock then told him he had to spend the afternoon working at his office on the advertising campaign to “prepare the UK for the new Captain Marsupial”. Apparently this included a long photo-shoot for John on Monday. 

John busied himself writing down any plan which popped into his head on a sticky note then adhered it to the stone coffee table. By late afternoon, he realized he had a table covered in the worst ideas ever. 

Throwing his body back into the couch with a huff, he glowered at the brightly colored pieces paper. “I hate all of you,” he hissed at them. 

”It’s not as easy as it looks, is it?” an all too familiar voice declared coolly from behind. 

Groaning, John sighed loudly and nodded grimly. “Of course!” he barked out a harsh laugh. “Mycroft is here.” 

The elder Holmes brother regally walked the rest of the way into the room before sitting in a chair. “You are very lucky no one noticed there are two of you running around today,” he commented dryly. 

Burying his face in his hands, John moaned. “And of course you know what’s going on,” he mumbled. 

Mycroft shrugged one shoulder. “Somewhat,” he admitted. “I know you are not of this reality and you will be leaving us soon. Now, it is imperative to make certain the John Watson who remains is in position to take your place when the time comes.” 

”Why are you helping me?” John asked suspiciously. 

Mycroft frowned at him. “Well… that _is_ how this works,” he said as if this were common knowledge as he adjusted his tie. 

”Look, I’m still a little new at this, alright,” John explained, lifting his head. “I don’t really know how any of this works, why I’m here, or any of that.” 

”Well, certainly someone explained the basic rules to you before sending you on your way?” Mycroft chortled. 

John cringed. “I may have put my copy of the rules in the wash before I could read them,” he admitted. “They were destroyed. So, no, I don’t have a clue.” 

The look on Mycroft’s face was purely gob smacked. “How many worlds have you been to so far?” 

”Two. This one and one where I was running from a psychotic stalker who wanted to break both of my legs because he thought I was his dead boyfriend to keep me from running away from him.” 

”And you’ve been too busy playing actor and fucking my brother to do what you were supposed to do,” Mycroft pointed out, tapping his fingers against one leg. He sighed, shaking his head. “How much time do you have left before you disappear from this world?” 

John glanced at his watch. “Two days, three hours, eight minutes, and… 48 seconds,” he rattled off. 

Mycroft gestured to someone standing behind John. “Tell Her the situation,” he told a man with cropped hair who was tapping away on his cell phone. _This world’s Anthea,_ John’s mind supplied. “Once we have an answer from Her on how to proceed, I want to know immediately.” 

”Yes, sir,” the man answered before disappearing from the room. 

”Um, who is ‘She’?” John wondered, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion. 

Mycroft gave him a tight lipped smile. “That would be up to Her if She wishes for you to know,” was the only answer he gave. “She is like you, a traveler between worlds. But there are rules about these things, which you would know if you hadn’t been so careless with your first set of instructions.” 

Never in his life did John want to punch a Mycroft in his face as much as he did right now. The smug bastard knew someone who had _answers_ for him and he was being a total prick about it. 

The assistant walked back in. “She says it will need to be tomorrow afternoon,” he informed them. “She wants to meet with you only, sir, to discuss the plan. Then She will come for this one.” The assistant jerked his head at John as if he were an afterthought. 

”When do I get to meet Her?” John demanded. He was growing tired of all of this government secret shit. 

”When She says so,” Mycroft replied simply. “You don’t even know who She is. She could walk right by you in the street and you wouldn’t know Her.” The elder Holmes stood. “The only thing you need to do now is go about whatever debaucheries you had planned with my brother and we will contact you once it is time for you to play your role in Her plan.” 

John was starting to hate this mysterious Her, too. 

)o( )o( )o( )o( )o( )o( )o(

By the next morning, John decided he might have to create a Levels of Hate List as the photographer brought out the kangaroo. 

An actual, live kangaroo. 

”No, Sherlock,” he shook his head. “I am _not_ doing this! This is where I draw my line in the sand!” 

Sherlock squeezed the tops of both of his arms. “Look, this won’t take that long,” he assured his lover. “Then we just need to shoot the commercial with the kangaroo and the koala-“ 

”No one said anything about there being live animals!” he shrieked. “I am _not_ putting myself in harm’s way just for a few pictures and 30 seconds worth of face time to get ratings for your show! We don’t even _have_ live animals on the show!” What was it with any Sherlock and putting him in dangerous situations without consulting him first to get what Sherlock wanted? 

Sherlock gave him a quick kiss on the lips. “Come on,” he cajoled. “The kids will love it! Plus the trainers are here to keep you safe from the animals!” 

It took Sherlock nearly thirty minutes to get John to agree to do the pictures with the kangaroo (and three quarters of a bottle of wine before ten in the morning). 

At first, all went well. John and the kangaroo got along swimmingly for the photo shoot portion, since they didn’t have to touch each other. After he realized the animal wasn’t going to punch him, John loosened up (or maybe it was the wine he had pounded down earlier) and got into the whole process, striking a multitude of sexy poses in between the ones they would actually be able to use for advertising the show. Sherlock nodded knowingly to the photographer that those shots would be sent to him for his personal collection. 

Once the photography portion was over, Sherlock swept in to help John “rest” in his dressing room for an hour before the filming of the commercial promoting the new season began. 

Maybe it was the smell of sex, maybe it was John becoming a little more nervous now that he was a little more sober upon his return to the set, maybe it was the addition of the koala: we will never know what it was that was the cause of the incident. 

The animal handlers brought out the koala just as a refreshed John Watson and Sherlock Holmes emerged back onto the set. The crew was in the process of setting things up when the kangaroo started sniffing at John suspiciously. 

Then it got a whiff of the koala before it went back to sniffing John as he sat on a “log”. Something must have upset the kangaroo, for when John suddenly felt compelled to give it a friendly pet the creature started “boxing” with him. 

The set became a flurry of movement as John tried to protect himself from the enraged kangaroo who got in some fierce punches and kicks before he found safety and the animal handlers could subdue the animal. Sherlock rushed to his side, checking him over scratches or bites which John was thankfully free of. 

”I told you working with live animals was a bad idea,” John grumbled crossly, pressing an ice pack to his cheek. 

Sherlock clucked at his lover, fussing over him. “No more live animals for you,” he agreed. “Once you’re feeling better, we’ll film the commercial just using the puppets.” 

Pouting, which earned him a kiss to the corner of his eye above his swollen cheek, John continued muttering darkly under his breath. He shot a nasty glance at the cage the kangaroo was being kept in. He swore the kangaroo shook its fist at him. 

”Listen, love,” Sherlock soothed, petting John’s hair. “I’ll go get the car, you go get changed. Meet me outside once you’re ready. We’ll get some takeaway, get settled in for the rest of the day and not come out until tomorrow morning. I promise to spend the rest of our waking hours making it up to you.” 

John very unsuccessfully kept the smile from coming onto his face a couple of times as he stood. “It’s going to take a lot to make it up to me!” he yelled over his shoulder before disappearing into his dressing room. 

”I certainly hope so!” Sherlock called back. 

Humming in anticipation, John shut the door. He jumped in shock when he looked up to find a strange woman who looked as if she had just stepped out of a Renaissance Faire lounging on the couch. It took him a moment to realize she was the woman he had noticed in the human resources department the day before. 

”You have made my life a miserable living hell these past couple of days, John Watson,” she sighed, though she didn’t seem overly cross. The brown haired American woman stood, walked over to his mirror and started putting her hair into a long braid after adjusting her corset. “On top of having to deal with my own shit to do in this reality, I had to clean up your little mess as well. Get changed please, we’re very short on time.” She pointed to a set of clothing similar to hers that was clearly meant for him. 

John picked up the soft leather pants and cotton peasant’s shirt with a cocked eyebrow. “Look, you can take your Lord of the Rings fetish-“ 

”Listen, in about two minutes, your director friend is going to see the _correct_ John Watson get hit by a car,” the woman snapped at John. “Thanks to the doctors from this world’s Baskerville- and you should very thankful there was one here!- he will be suffering from ‘concussion induced amnesia’ for about a week or so. Then he will ‘regain’ most of his memories of your time here and fully take your place, as you and I will be long gone.” 

Gaping at the strange woman like a fish, John started to pull on the pants. “Er, what about the doctor’s house? Or his dog?” 

”Oh, I burned it down this morning,” she shrugged as she tied off the braid. “As for Gladstone, he’s coming with us.” 

Gladstone wiggled his fat body out from under the couch to give John a Hello Lick. John stared at the woman in shock before licking his lips. “Who are you?” he finally demanded. 

She lifted up the skirt of her dress slightly to show him a similar watch to the one on his wrist wrapped around her ankle. “You’ll learn it’s better to keep it hidden,” she explained. She clapped her hands at him. “Now, hurry up! We’re leaving in a few minutes and you’re still not changed!” 

John looked down at his watch. “I still have plenty of time-“ He watched in shock as the woman rushed over and started pressing buttons. The time on the watch now showed he only had six minutes left. He felt a strange tug in his gut. “But I don’t want to leave Sherlock.” 

The woman gave him a sad smile. “Look, John, we don’t have a lot of time,” she told him gently as she bent to scratch Gladstone behind the ears. “I can’t do the whole being nice about things, so here we go the rough way: he is _not_ your Sherlock. I am very sorry for your loss, but _you do not belong here_. The other Doctor John Watson does. You had no right to take his place. I understand you don’t know what you’re doing and we will have some nice discussions later about this thing works, but right now you need to finish changing so we can get going.” 

Staring at the shirt for a moment, John couldn’t think of anything to say to that. He silently pulled the shirt over his head, suddenly feeling very sad. It just wasn’t fair- 

John glanced down to see Gladstone’s eyes peering up at him as the Bulldog pressed his head against his leg. The woman gave his shoulder a light squeeze. “I really am sorry John,” she murmured, “but we have to go now. Mycroft will make sure everything goes off without a hitch and it would be best if no one sees us disappearing.” 

It took John a few minutes to finish dressing and get himself pulled back together. He looked at the watch on his wrist. “Should I put this somewhere else like you, Miss..?” 

The woman shook her head as she scooped up Gladstone in her arms. “It is Ms. and only take it off once you have a ‘prime’ universe and in that universe, which you don’t have anymore,” she said. “We’ll talk more about it in the next world. Now, put your hand on my shoulder. I’ve set your device to take us both to the same place so I can teach you as you’ve obviously been taught nothing.” 

”Won’t we still be standing near each other when we cross over?” John asked, still putting his hand on her shoulder as requested. 

”Not always,” she chortled, her eyebrows shooting up a comically. “We could wind up a few feet away, a few miles, a few hundred miles from each other! But, by being in physical contact with one another, we will appear right next to each other on the other side.” 

”Right, and what do we need Gladstone for?” 

”I like dogs,” she told him simply. “Oh, by the way, my name is Jane Mor-“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't write sex scenes. Seriously. I can read them, but I can't write one to save my life. For those of you who are familiar, it comes out like something Beevis and Butthead would come up with (And then he touched his man thingie...)
> 
> Okay, I can write better than that, but I'm terrible with sex scenes. So, I'll work at it, but don't expect much man-lovin' for a while.
> 
> Also, who is Jane? *heh*


	4. Universe 3, Part 1- Teaching Time With Jane!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John gets some of his questions answered, we learn a little about Jane, just why John is out here, a Warg shows up, and then they're off on the start of another quest!
> 
> Also, "The Ballad of Bilbo Baggins" is the property of Leonard Nimoy

“I like dogs,” she told him simply. “Oh, by the way, my name is Jane Mor-“ 

They both felt the familiar rush of air as they were sucked from one reality and shoved into the next. Jane and John both stumbled as they dropped a few meters through the air. They were no longer in a building but now in a forest with bright sunlight streaming through the trees. Gladstone wandered off to go happily mark some trees. 

John immediately jumped to the wrong conclusions about Jane. She plotted. She had brown hair and brown eyes, she was well dressed. She was clearly highly intelligent and condescending toward him. There was only one person she could be, even if she wasn’t Irish. 

“Moriarty!” he roared as he spun, swinging wildly at her jaw with a closed fist. Jane had the gall to sigh as if put out as she dodged the blow, putting out a foot and tripping him to send John crashing to the moist, hard ground in with a wet thunk. He glowered up at her, “You’re not a Moriarty, are you?” 

“No, John, I am not now, nor have I ever been, a version of Moriarty,” she informed him, clasping her hands behind her back. Her skirt swished to a rest around her legs. “Also, just so we can clear things up, I have never been married to a Moriarty, dated a Moriarty, no one in my family whom I am close to has ever been in any shape, way, or form involved with a Moriarty. So, does that take care of that little problem for you? Will you be a bit more agreeable and let me get through the rest of your lessons for the day without causing me any bodily harm?” She raised her eyebrows at him in that horridly condescending way he was quickly coming to hate. He hoped her corsets were extra uncomfortable. 

John stood up, brushing leaves off one leg. The dog ambled back, snuffling his boots and woofing up at him. “Well,” he groused, “I can’t guarantee I won’t try and hit you again, but I can accept the whole ‘Not a Moriarty’ bit.” 

She smiled thinly at him. “Very good,” she bobbed her head once at him. “Now, we still don’t have a great deal of time-“ She ignored John snorting at her. “But we do have some to at least cover the basics before we must be on our way so you can help me on my mission. We have about thirty minutes, so the less you interrupt me the more I will be able to cover.” 

Nodding stiffly, John crossed his arms over his chest. Gladstone sat next to him, panting heavily. He swore the damn dog was smiling up at him. “Right, so Jane, what is your full name then if it isn’t Moriarty then?” he asked. It was very hard to be serious with the dog looking at him. 

Chortling, she made her way over to a pair of stumps and sat down. It was then John noticed the bag leaning against it. “Convenient, right? We have guardians… okay, totally getting ahead of myself,” she said, opening the bag to pull out a paper bag from within it. She continued talking as she handed him a sandwich. “My name is Jane Morganna Anderson-Brooks. And before you ask, I have been made well aware of the history of the Brooks name in your universe as well. Once more, no relation, it’s just a weird circumstance. My second husband just happens to have the same name your Jim Moriarty happened to choose for his pseudonym’s surname.” 

Frowning into his sandwich, John swallowed. “Wait, earlier you said you were a ‘Ms.’ not a ‘Miss’,” he pointed out. “Now you’re a Mrs.?” 

Jane kicked at the ground nervously before pulling out a dog dish for Gladstone. “Well, my husband and I have hit a bit of a rough spot in our marriage. We are currently separated at the moment,” she admitted as she filled the dish with dog food. Apparently their mysterious benefactors had thought of everything. “But we’re seeing a marriage counselor when I’m home, trying to work things out. And this isn’t about me, this is about training you. Let’s try to stay on topic, shall we? 

“So, yes, you’ve figured out the timing on the watch, which is good. Then, quickly, why we are here and going from one place to the next: it is our job to keep the multiverse from imploding completely. You see, John, sometimes little things happen that aren’t supposed to which cause little hiccups and the individual universes can fix themselves.” 

”And when there are big, massive tears we come in to heal them?” John suggested before popping the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth. 

Jane shook her head. “Oh, no,” she corrected him. “If a massive tear happens in a universe, it’s too late for you or me to fix it on our own. I don’t have time to give you a whole lesson in physics, String Theory, or all of that stuff, so I’m going to butcher it completely and go about it a more pop culture way as I imagine it will be a bit simpler. You and I are quantum general internists: we only go in to do preventive universal maintenance. The Watchers at the Heart of All Things see these rips before they happen and they see how the rips are most likely to occur. They give us as much information as they can about the circumstances, we go in and do our jobs. Then we get the hell out. The key to what we do is to disrupt the local reality as little as possible.” 

“And, um, who or what are the Watchers?” John inquired, shifting a bit. The stump wasn’t exactly the most comfortable place to sit. Gladstone waddled over, sniffing at his fingers too late in hopes of a meaty treat. 

Jane scratched the top of her head. “Ehhh… they’re really hard to explain,” she hedged. “Are you familiar with the Green Lantern comics at all? Did they have them in your world?” 

John nodded, taking the thermos Jane handed him after she fished it out of the bag. “I didn’t read them, but I had a mate who went on about them in uni,” he explained. “I think I remember some of what he said about the plot and characters.” 

“Right.” Jane screwed the cap off of the thermos, pulling out two tin cups for John to pour water into. “Basically they’re like those guys from the Green Lantern Corp who watch over the Lanterns, with us as the Lanterns, and tell them what to do and where to be, or that’s as near as I can figure it. But the Watchers don’t have a specific form, per se, they have this whole ‘they appear to you as you expect them to appear’ thing going on. You don’t get to see them until you are truly ‘ready to see them’.” She wove her free hand in the air for the last bit to indicate some kind of mystical-ness, which she obviously didn’t believe in. “So don’t ask to see them, they come to you.” She took the thermos back to first clean out the dog bowl before filling it with water for Gladstone to drink. The dog made more of a mess than he drank. 

“And the Guardians?” 

Jane took a sip of water first. “Right, there’s at least one in every reality you visit,” she answered, setting the cup on her knee. “They help us to get our jobs done, which is one of their side functions. They are the… well, the guardians of their given reality. They handle the day to day problems which pop up. We come in when those problems get out of control, you know, too much for them to handle alone.” 

“But, how do they know who we are?” John pressed. “I mean, it’s not as if we’re always going to be expected or we come with letters announcing who we are.” 

“Yeah, here’s the frustrating part of the lesson,” Jane hedged. “I remember truly hating this bit: they just know. I also suggest getting used to those kind of answers, because either that or a variation of that is going to be all you will get when you ask. ‘It just is.’ ‘They just know.’ There are some things that happen in your new found line of work, my friend, which just cannot be explained logically.” She patted John on the knee. “All I can suggest is: the sooner you accept those things when I tell you about them and move on, the happier you will be.” 

“So, um, Mycroft Holmes-?” John inquired, realizing his strange teacher was probably right. After all, he had a watch which could take him across universes. 

“Yes, Mycroft Holmes,” she continued, hiking up her skirt a bit and stretching her legs a bit in her knee high brown boots. Gladstone turned around a few times before settling down on his side under her knees with a heavy sigh. “I’ve run across him a few times, but as you will learn: a- some realities have multiple Guardians. This brings me to point b- while they are not always the same every time, you will frequently find it is the same individual, so to speak, who is the Guardian. So, when in doubt, try to find those people. But don’t be obvious, no walking up to them and outright asking, ‘hey, are you the Guardian, dude?’ Because it’s like only a one in three chance that they are the Guardian, got it? Usually, Guardians recognize us first anyway. So, just because Mycroft has been the Guardian you’ve met the last few times, don’t assume if you run into a version of him here he’s one. He might just be a part of the populace.” 

John set his half-finished cup on the ground. “Let’s get some of the more obvious things out of the way you’ve clearly been avoiding, shall we?” He looked pointedly into Jane’s eyes. “Why was I chosen, why can’t we ever go back to our home universes again, what happens if we fail, and where did this bag full of food and drink that clearly does not belong here based on how you made us dress?” 

Taking a deep breath, Jane pinched her nose. “Alright, the bag will disappear after we leave,” she answered. “We put the stuff back in it. The Watchers do… whatever they do and it goes ‘poof’. They put it here because they knew we were going to be hungry and thirsty upon our arrival, maybe they even thought it would make our conversation better. Who knows? 

“As for your first two questions, I can sort of answer those.” Jane instantly held up her hands to ward of the inevitable question she saw forming on his lips. “Shut it, Watson. The truth is, I can give you a generic answer. They,” she pointed a finger upwards, indicating the Watchers, “haven’t told me a ton about you, okay. I was told only what I needed to know to facilitate the parts of your training I would be handling. The rest you will probably tell me in your own time. 

“There are things… things other people need to handle. The Watchers choose us for all sorts of reasons, mainly because of our characteristics, so you would have to ask them why they wanted you specifically. 

“They look for people who are brave, smart, willing to put their lives on the line for others, willing to take risks, but also know the value of life. They look for people who want to save lives. They look for people who can see that clichéd ‘bigger picture’, and…” Jane looked uncomfortable. 

“What, Jane?” John demanded. “What is it? What’s the other thing?” 

Jane stared hard at John. He could see she was weighing options in her head. “Give me your gun,” she ordered suddenly. 

John looked are her strangely. “What? No! I’m not giving a strange woman my gun!” 

She actually appeared sad. “John, I’m just going to put it in the bag,” she assured him. “They don’t have that kind of technology here, remember? You’ll get it back once it’s allowed.” 

Scowling, John made a point of standing up to put his gun in the bag himself. The dog lifted his head to watch his movements before returning to his nap as John sat back down on the stump. “There, are you satisfied?” he grumbled at her, shoving his hands under his armpits. 

Jane just seemed resigned. “Thank you, John,” she answered. “The other thing is, they take us at the moment of our death, John.” John’s blood ran cold. “You were about to die right before you came here. I was supposed to die in a car crash in Los Angeles with my first husband and two daughters.” She gave him a strange smile. “They’re dead now and I’m not. That is why we can never go back, usually. The moment we leave, we are replaced with a clone or something- I don’t know what exactly, I’ve never been there when It happens to any of us, so those who knew us in our home reality believe us to be actually dead. 

“If we were to return it would cause a rip to start in our original Prime Universe, John, depending on who and how many people saw us. Now, the universe might heal itself after we left. Or, it might collapse,” she continued. “When a universe collapses, it kills everyone in it, John. They are wiped out, deleted from existence. Sometimes a universal collapse even takes the surrounding universes with it. It’s horrible, John. 

“I’ve been on Universe Collapse Duty. We try to save the universes around it. You have to work in the ‘between’ space as it is happening. You and I have the ability now because of who we are. It doesn’t happen fast, it takes days, John, days. Sometimes, it can take weeks for a universe to be deleted. 

“But, when you’re ‘between’, John, you can still hear the inhabitants of the dying universe screaming for help and you can’t do a fucking thing. Except let them die an excruciating death. Sometimes, in their final moments, they can see you. And they’re begging, or they’re wondering why you aren’t helping them. Or worse, they want to know what happened. What do you say to someone, John, as their Universe is fading away? Do you think there is an afterlife for someone who never existed? Those screams stay with you forever. You think Afghanistan was bad? Try sleeping after listening to the big bang in reverse and knowing all of creation somewhere has been wiped out while you just watched it happen. 

“And may whatever deity you believe in have mercy on your soul if you caused something like that to happen on purpose, John. Because there is another group just like us who we are fighting against who-“ Jane shook herself out of her horrified reverie. “But that’s a whole other story for another time. I need to prep you for our mission and we need to get moving.” 

John had a whole new respect for Jane. He took his tin mug, hers and the dog dish and put them in the bag, giving her a moment to collect herself. While he now wanted to ask her more about her former life and her life as a reality jumper, John suspected now was really not the time. 

After a moment Jane pulled out what essentially amounted to a cellphone from a leather bag she had tied to her waist. “You will get one of these soon enough as well,” she told him. “Once you get a new Prime Universe, which will be your home base in your down time, you’ll get all sorts of goodies to play with. Now, this bad boy is what you use when you don’t have a Guardian on hand to needle for information. It also is also a functioning phone when the need arises if the reality you are in has phone service. This will tell you what your mission is, functions as a translator, and so on.” 

John looked over Jane’s shoulder at the touch screen. “Wait, if we’re in a weird medieval type world, how is it you are managing to get a signal on-“ 

Jane held up a finger on John’s lips. “John, what did I say earlier? Some things...?” 

John groaned loudly around the finger. “Just are,” he finished petulantly. “So it runs on magical Watcher Power?” 

Jane grinned brightly at him. “Now you’re getting it!” She scrolled to one of the pages that had their pictures on it. “Now this page is very important: it tells you all about the ‘you’ in the reality you are running through. Whenever you are on this page, you just have to tap the picture of yourself and it will let you know where Other You is so you don’t accidentally cross paths.” 

“Will the universe blow up if we touch or something?” 

Gladstone seemed to almost huff out a laugh as he rolled into a standing position. 

“Oh, gods no,” Jane agreed with the dog. “Well, not right away, you won’t. It’s another function of the watch, you see. You can touch, just not for long periods of time. And even the actual amount of time you can touch varies from universe to universe, but the watch will start vibrating and beeping at you two minutes before you have to stop touching your Other Self- oh. My. God.” Jane was looking at the identity of John’s Other Self. 

“Oh no,” John groaned, trying to snatch the cell away from her as she tapped on his picture. “Give me that! You… horrid woman!” Jane danced easily away with the cell, laughing good naturedly. “Well, your Other is an elf named Nienna Calafalas!” he yelled after her. 

Jane giggled at him. “Elves are sexy!” she countered. “Hobbits have hairy feet, Bilbo Baggins.” 

“Shut up.” 

Unfortunately for John, Jane was apparently a big enough geek to know a certain song which she felt compelled to start warbling at that moment. Badly, with Gladstone started howling along as her accompanist. “In the middle of the earth in the land of the Shire, lives a brave little hobbit whom we all admire!” 

“Please stop.” 

“With his long wooden pipe, fuzzy, wooly toes, he lives in a hobbit-hole and everybody knows him. Bilbo! Bilbo Baggins! He’s only three feet tall-“ 

“No, really stop.” 

“Bilbo! Bilbo Baggins! The bravest little hobbit of them all!” 

And so John forgot everything his father had ever told him about hitting girls and tackled Jane around the middle. The two fell to the ground, wrestling and rolling around. It wasn’t so much punching as more of a tickled fight. 

Which is probably why they didn’t see the Warg or his Orc rider approaching them. In fact, this tale almost came to a very gruesome (and short) end had Gladstone not started barking to give the approaching attackers away. 

Not thinking, John shoved Jane away and behind, putting himself between her and the slowly approaching wolf… thing. “Get out of here, Jane!” he yelled. “Take Gladstone and run!” 

“What?” she snarled in feminist indignation. 

John would have smacked her upside the head if he could. “You are the one of us who knows what they’re doing!” he amended. “Just go! I’ll hold them off while you go arm yourself!” 

Jane looked over the Warg and the Orc, who was grinning at her lasciviously. “Aren’t you a pretty one,” he slobbered at her, drawing out what looked to be some kind of misshapen sword. 

“Oh, please,” she shot back. “One Orc against two humans? You know full well we travel in packs, damned fool. Even if you do kill us, you’ll only piss off our friends and bring them down on you! Is it really worth the trouble? And clearly you’re not much of an Orc, given such a sorry weapon and the fact that you have very little armor.” 

“Jane!” John hissed at her, begging her to shut up. 

“No, I’m serious, John,” she rationalized. “Look at him, he’s clearly no soldier. He has no armor on, that sword ways almost as much as he does and he can barely hold it. I’m willing to bet he doesn’t even know why he’s out here. Am I right, honey? You came out for some strange reason, but you don’t know why? You just suddenly felt compelled to pick up a sword and jump on the Warg, right? Thought you would go out and impress your buddies to earn that armor!” 

The Orc looked confused. “I… shut up, bitch!” he tried to save face, waving the sword at her. It promptly fell out of his hands. 

“Thought so,” she nodded, having clearly figured something out. She glanced up at the trees. “Anytime now, because we would really like to get on way!” 

An arrow came streaking through the air, catching the foolish lone Orc between the eyes. He tumbled off of his Warg onto the ground. The Warg twisted around. Not being one to turn down a free meal, he started snacking on the dead Orc. Jane turned away in disgust, deciding to back away now. 

John winced before following suit. “Alright, what’s going on?” he asked. It was also a little disturbing to see Gladstone was apparently enjoying this. 

“Remember the part about Guardians?” she reminded him. “Well, he’s here. And, I think we might be able to wrangle us transportation from the Warg. It will tire be tiring, but I think you’ll be able to handle the mission once we reach out destination.” 

Gladstone trotted over to the two, wagging his tail at them with blood splattered fur. “Oh, that is… a bit not good,” John muttered. He glanced at Jane. “Is this another one of those mystical ‘just so’ things.” 

The Warg padded over to them and sat heavily in front of Jane. “Right then, just let me explain a few things to my companion John here then we can do what we need to do,” she said loudly, looking deep into the eyes of the Warg before giving John her full attention. “Nope, remember how we get chosen because we may also have a special skill or two? Wellllll, I can read minds. Which is very useful when you may have to work with a creature who is-“ she pointed to the Warg “-non-traditional in their way of speaking to you or keep them under your control for an extended period of time.” 

John blinked at her slowly. “You read minds,” he said. “So, you know what I’m thinking.” 

“No, that is a telepath,” she countered. “I have to actively look into your mind at a given moment to know what you are thinking. I only do so when I feel it is absolutely necessary. And I’m sure you have lots of questions about it, John, but we are on a time schedule here. It’s mission time, so we need to switch our focus. We will talk about this later.” She rolled her eyes and yelled out. 

John glared at the side of her head as she turned to the Warg. “Awful convenient timing that,” he growled. 

Jane rolled her eyes. “Deal with it,” she hissed. Clasping her hands together, she yelled out, “Will you hurry up? We are all very impressed by your hiding skills!” 

Frowning, John looked around for their mysterious archer. “Maybe they left?” 

“John, meet this world’s Greg Lestrade, Ranger Gaellyn,” Jane called out as a man who looked like the Greg Lestrade John knew had stolen clothing from the Lord of the Rings Movies leapt silently down from the trees. 

Gaellyn eyed Jane warily. “How long did you know I was there, woman?” he demanded. 

“First timer, huh?” she grinned. Jane tapped her forehead. “Magic. There was no way you could have hidden from me. Now, I don’t suppose there’s any chance of us getting a second Warg? Fluffy here doesn’t look strong enough to carry both of us.” 

The ranger’s eyes flicked between the small group. “Wasn’t supposed to be but one o’ you here, so I killed off his brethren as was followin’ him,” he snapped. “And there certainly was not supposed to be a woman here!” 

Jane pinched Gaellyn’s cheek. “I love your misogyny! It’s so cute!” she cooed at him. “Honey, you’ve been out in the woods alone way too long. It’s time to get back to civilization and find-“ John cleared his throat noisily behind her. “Right, back to business. We have a wedding to save!” 

“What?” John gasped behind her. “That fate of this universe rests on a wedding?” 

Both Jane and Gaellyn turned to look at John as if he were a simple child who was giving them a hard time in the shops. Even the dog seemed frustrated with him. “This will bring together two of our most powerful houses, guaranteeing peace in the lands for generations to come,” the ranger explained. “This union must occur.” 

“Right,” Jane nodded. “We’ll get there as quickly as we can and deal with the problem, make sure the wedding goes off as planned, and then we’ll be out of this reality before you know it. Come on, John, let’s go.” 

Gaellyn shook his head as woman, man, and dog got onto the back of the Warg. “It’s a two day ride to the city,” he told them. “You’ll make it in plenty of time.” 

Jane nodded. “Thanks!” she called back as the Warg turned in the direction indicated, apparently finding his new load to be to problem at all. 

As they rode off, Gaellyn shook his head. If the Orcs didn’t get them, they were going to have a hell of a time with that dragon once they got to the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *pfft* Like the whole Jane thing is any surprise. I don't know how much longer she'll be around, at least a few more chapters and then she'll be off on her merry way. She may pop up once or twice more to help John out, but that's about it.
> 
> Next chapter: did someone say Dragon? 
> 
> And no, it's not Smaug. Sorry.

**Author's Note:**

> Sooooo unbeta-ed. And I'm totally my own beta. An un-brit... picked? Is that an official term? But, since it's in the multiverse, I figure whatever mistakes there now are, it's all good because it's a-okay in that universe, right? Yes, I'm totally American. 
> 
> But if, you haven't read "Riding the Wheel of If" (and are looking for some good Obi/Qui-Gon lovin') you should!
> 
> Leave what suggestions for which universes you would like to see in future chapters below (you know, outside of the obvious Star Trek/Elementary/Hobbit...)! Remember... reviews are love!


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